The awkwardness hangs between them. Unnamed. Obvious.
Kaia walks away. Mouse follows, tail flicking once in what might be approval.
Finn watches her go, chaos magic dimming as distance grows between them.
My shadows shift, recognition settling cold and certain in my chest.
Chaos always chooses its anchor.
And she has no idea she’s holding the rope.
Chapter 4
Finn
I’m fucking this up.
My pack won’t close. The bedroll won’t roll. Everything I touch either tangles or falls or decides gravity is a suggestion I should’ve ignored.
Chaos magic pops at my fingertips like static charge looking for somewhere to ground. I shove it down. It sparks anyway.
I drop my canteen for the third time and swear under my breath.
“Real smooth, Veylan,” I mutter. “Very competent. Very together.”
Across the clearing, Kaia seems to move effortlessly, packing her gear like she’s done this a thousand times. Mouse supervises from her shoulder. Bob hovers nearby, edges sharp with disapproval that probably has nothing to do with packing technique.
I try not to look at her.
I fail.
Again.
My chest does that thing—the tight, wrong, aching thing that’s been happening since the lake. Since Malrik’s bond locked into place and I felt every second of it like I was drowning in someone else’s happiness.
I shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be this close. Shouldn’t want things I have no right to want.
Distance is kindness, and it’s fucking smart.
So why does it feel like punishment?
Because I am not a smart man. Okay, I am, just not when it comes to her.
I grab my pack straps and yank too hard. Something tears. Of course it does.
“You’re packing that like you’re trying to lose it.”
I don’t jump. Barely. Malrik’s voice comes from directly behind me—calm, measured, the kind of steady that makes my chaos magic flicker nervously.
“I’m fine,” I say without turning around.
“Try again.”
I exhale through my teeth. “I said I’m fine.”
“Your magic’s loud again.”
“Yeah, well.” I gesture vaguely at the air around me where sparks dance like angry fireflies. “It does that.”
